


I want your love

by nakamaRose



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Light Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Scene: The Ritz (Good Omens), Romance, Yearning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 17:50:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21019802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakamaRose/pseuds/nakamaRose
Summary: Are you certain? Are you positive? I’ve never felt this way about anyone before but when I saw you, you were different. You treated me differently, you welcomed me despite your reservations and how could that possibly be? Shouldn’t it be impossible to fall in love with a Demon?





	I want your love

Crowley watches Aziraphale close his eyes in bliss around a mouthful of Eton mess, a bit of cream sticking to his bottom lip captivates serpentine eyes before soft pink flesh comes to sweep it away.

“. . . and don’t you agree, my dear?”

Crowley feels a deep-seated warmth rush up through him, but instead of acknowledging its presence he idly twirls his glass of half empty champagne. He’s only been half listening to the Angel ramble on—he thinks it’s one of the stories from ages ago, probably the one from the beginning of the 1800’s, the one where Crowley had shown up with a box of chocolates and flowers to celebrate but had been horrendously interrupted by that fucking archangel Gabriel— and so he merely nods his head politely and lifts his glass towards his lips.

“Oh yes, entirely so,” because in all honesty, Crowley could easily carry a conversation without every really needing to listen to the other person speaking. He only ever really bothered around Aziraphale because. . .well. . .

He quickly brought up his glass and gulped down the last bit of champagne, grabbing the neck of the bottle sitting in an ice bucket in the middle of their table and pouring himself more.

It seems adequate a statement to make, because Aziraphale’s lips are moving again and he’s leaning further into Crowley’s space. His hand coming out and splaying out on the table and touching the Demon’s still neatly folded cloth napkin. Crowley inhales, though he doesn’t need to breathe, because what’s surrounding Aziraphale is deliciously intoxicating and scratches at the back of his mind. It’s a swirl of heightened awareness dotted with sheer, unabashed pleasure that it makes Crowley grind his back together until his jaw spasms. This is something he had become accustomed to sensing from humans whenever they would reach out to grasp towards something just beyond their reach, and he would lean in a give them just enough of a nudge to push them over the edge.

Because Crowley, back then, had been a Demon after all. And he had tried to step into his new role with gusto and do what was expected of him. But as thousands of years passed, he quickly began to realize that he was just as much an outcast in Hell as he ever had been in Heaven.

But once you experience such raw and open and yearning excitements, you never truly forget the rush that washes over your skin and causes the hair on your arms to stick up on end. And where in the beginning it had intrigued and delighted Crowley, now only makes his stomach twist and churn and tie tight knots.

He tries his best to be discrete—because he can feel the muscles of his face twitch and Crowley knows he needs to keep a clear head lest he lose his grip on his corporeal from, there was no getting another one after what they’d done— and so falls to alcohol to keep his mind from wandering.

It only helps so much.

The two share another bottle between them before Aziraphale flags down their waitress—s bright and happy young woman who had complimented the Angel on his well-manicured hands—and paying their bill and offering a fine tip for her excellent service. Crowley, in his slightly alcohol muddled mind, didn’t care much for the way the fresh-faced woman had practically fawned over Aziraphale. Telling him absurdly bored and tired jokes and pointing out a new bottle of red wine that they might enjoy—at least Aziraphale had had the sense of mind to choose Champagne instead of going with something she had picked out.

(And it’s not that Crowley _doesn’t_ enjoy a nice red with dinner every now and then, he swears it’s more than just surface level stuff. But honestly, he’d probably fumble over his words and end up skulking away, leaving you confused and concerned.)

In any case, the pair find themselves leisurely walking down the streets of London. Aziraphale has his hands clasped loosely in front of him, lips stretched out into an easy grin as he rambled on with Crowley occasionally adding to the conversation.

Warm, fading light from above set Aziraphale’s profile aglow, practically making the Angel glow and shine as if his Grace were breaking through to the surface. His smile was soft and inviting, edges of his mouth curling up and pulling him closer like the leaves of his plants reaching out when he watered them. His posture was lax, or at least as much as it could be seeing as Aziraphale still seemed to carry himself with a somewhat dignified flair. Even those endless pools of ocean seemed to exude relief, comfort, happiness in waves upon waves of brazen plainness.

And it wasn’t as if Crowley had been blinded by Aziraphale, quite the contrary. The Demon could pinpoint the exact moment his curiosity melded into genuine interest and then sparked and grew into a hearty fire of desire. And he had seen, through their time on Earth, the way the Angel would turn his head just so, peaking at him from behind long lashes when he thought Crowley wasn’t the wiser. He _felt_ the fledgling sparks of intrigue and camaraderie with an undercurrent of warmth flickering down below. 

But Crowley had resigned himself to stay friends with Aziraphale, to be by his side when the Angel needed him most and protect him from harm in any way he could. Because Crowley had decided after Rome that he had Fallen once again.

And he was left walking in the dark as he navigated new territory.

They came up to Aziraphale’s bookshop, the Angel coming to an abrupt stop and letting out a choked sound. Crowley straightened out immediately, hands clenched in the pockets of his trousers but eyes wandering up and down the sidewalks as the Angel beside him took in the sight of his unscathed shop with eyes that were his own.

“It’s really all here,” Aziraphale breathed out on a high sigh and Crowley turned his head to find the Angel looking up at him with eyes wide and hands clasped almost as if in prayer. It made an odd trickle of uncertainty down his spine and he tries to maintain an air of nonchalant.

“‘Course it is,” he hears himself saying, a shiver suddenly gripping his body as he turns his head away to stare up at the bookshop sign, “would I lie to you?”

And there’s the sharp intake of breath, the hammering of a heart against bone that can’t possibly contain something so otherworldly and incomprehensible. A flash of understanding intermingled with delight and gratitude and oh, oh, he suddenly feels like the world is tilting on its side.

“Come in won’t you, my dear?”, comes a soft sigh of breath, a gentle weight pulling him towards the door and Crowley has to muster up the strength to keep from tumbling forward and spilling out everything he’s ever felt since the very beginning.

He lets himself be led by the arm towards the very back of Aziraphale’s bookshop, lets the Angel pull out his seat and lets himself be prodded down. His mind is still faintly swirling from the sudden influx of positive emotions that, on instinct, his hand reaches out for a tumbler he knows to be filled with single malt scotch.

Aziraphale pours himself a generous amount and plops down in a chair opposite Crowley and lifts his glass into the air, “I believe we’ve earned the drinks tonight; don’t you agree?” And the Angel doesn’t wait for a response, merely tips his glass back and takes a hearty sip. He grimaces, smacks his lips a few times before offering an apologetic smile in his direction and Crowley’s toes curl inside his snakeskin boots.

He hides his own scowl behind his glass and gulps down the scotch, focusing on the burn as it crawls down his throat and settles into the pit of his stomach.

They sit in silence for a few moments, Aziraphale’s gaze cast down into his glass and pinky finger _clinking_ against the side before he picks his head up and stares into the space on Crowley’s left.

“I do believe I owe you an apology,” the Angel begins softly, turning his gaze back towards Crowley just as the Demon brings his glass back up. Because there’s only one thing he hates more than being called “nice”, and that’s having Aziraphale feel as if he needs to apologize. There’s nearly nothing the Angel could do that would leave Crowley sore and out of sorts for longer than a day.

Yes, Aziraphale was trying on the best of times and yes, back in the early stages of their partnership, they had gone years between speaking. But as soon as Crowley had vented his frustrations, he had instantly wanted to seek out Aziraphale, see the Angel and speak and eat with him again. Because the Angel was addicting, and Crowley had struggled to maintain a healthy amount of space when all he had wanted to do was stick to Aziraphale’s side.

Aziraphale opens and closes his mouth several times as Crowley takes a longer sip of his drink. His face scrunches up and his forehead becomes marred with lines which Crowley wants to reach out and smooth away but instead, he bites the inside of his lower lip and tries to keep from shaking his leg up and down.

“I. . . I’m afraid I’ve been, well,” Aziraphale starts again, clearing his throat before continuing, “rather foolish these last few. . .years”. And again, the Angel clears his throat, turning his eyes to his drink then up at Crowley, and then back to his drink again.

The air around them becomes charged with tension, and this time it does make Crowley bounce his leg up and down as he worries his bottom lip. He tells himself that he’s prepared for what Aziraphale is clearly working his way up to, and he tells himself that he’s willing to continue down the path he’d been walking on. So long as he continued to stay by Aziraphale, so long as he was able to come and go from the bookshop and bask in the light and radiance, then he was fine.

He was fine.

“I, don’t mean to be walking around the bush, as it were—”

And here, Crowley snorts, because of course Aziraphale would get the idiom wrong and of course, Aziraphale would shoot him an icy glare accompanied by pursing those plump lips of his. And of course, Crowley would merely throw his hands up in the air compliantly while the Angel rolled his eyes, lips quirking into a barely contained smirk.

“Well _however_ you say it,” the Angel goes on to say in exasperation, body sagging just a bit before his eyes suddenly become dark and serious and cause Crowley to still his fidgeting.

“I, have just wanted to say. . . and mind you, I realize I’ve been _quite_ talkative it’s just. . .” and here, on a sigh, Aziraphale leans closer to the table between them, Crowley magnetically drawn forward as well as he leans an elbow onto the wood surface.

“It’s just. . .” Aziraphale begins again, “today has been, possibly, one of the most exhilarating I have ever had the pleasure of experiencing and,” here he looks up from his drink and stares pointedly into Crowley’s eyes, “and it’s just. . .made me come to realize something. . .something I-I should have. . .well, _have_ noticed or-or rather felt _the same_ about? Equally felt? Oh dear, is-is that presumptuous of me?”

And here, Crowley finds it hard to concentrate, because he’s not quite sure he’s following what it is that Aziraphale is trying to tell him. He has a sneaking suspicion, but his throat is constricting around the words whirling around in his head, his heart hammering against his ribcage madly.

Aziraphale brings his glass up to his lips, eyes never leaving Crowley as he tips his head back just so, the bob of his throat appealing, and he feels his tongue come out to swipe at his hungry lips.

There’s silence again, when Aziraphale sets his glass back down and they stare at one another before the Angel breaks the silence with a question that sends Crowley teetering off the edge.

“Would it be terribly ill of me if I were to kiss you?”

And that, _that._ . .oh, how many nights had he said those words to himself? How many times had he tried them out on his tongue—said on a sigh as he arched into himself, long fingers curled around himself as he tugged and pulled and set himself off—how many times had laid there in bed, staring at an empty space he hoped and longed to fill?

Crowley swore he’d be fine with continuing on as friends, moving on with their lives as if nothing had changed between them. But oh, oh, things had changed, had been progressively changing. And only now, in the face of hooded eyes and burning want, did the Demon grasp just how far they truly had come since Eden.

And yet. . .despite the _need_ to cup Aziraphale’s face in both hands and lick and bite and mark every inch of porcelain skin, shadows danced behind him and he had to force himself to stay seated instead of turning around and rushing out through the front doors.

“I’ve. . . do you. . . are you. . .” _Are you certain? Are you positive? I’ve never felt this way about anyone before but when I saw you, you were different. You treated me differently, you welcomed me despite your reservations and how could that possibly be? Shouldn’t it be impossible to fall in love with a Demon?_

“Yes”, comes the immediate response as Aziraphale leans closer across the table, “after all these years of toeing around it, yes. Dear Lord, yes”.

Crowley cracks a smirk, swallows a few times to get the lump down his throat, “Careful with that,” he says in a low voice as he tilts his head down to peer over the rim of his glasses at Aziraphale, “She might become quite cross with you”.

And Aziraphale smiles, a breathtakingly beautiful smile and he reaches out a hand to place in the space between them. “My dear, you needn’t worry,” and then, “She’s actually quite chuffed, truth be told”.

Crowley throws him a disgruntled look, opens his mouth a few times before letting out a huff of breath. He’s not sure whether to feel relief or mistrust, but the thought quickly leaves when he feels the warmth of Aziraphale’s fingers reaching up to curl around his wrist. And he’s looking into inviting pools of blue and he shifts in his seat, licking his lips once more.

He leans in a few inches, watches as Aziraphale’s eyes flicker down to his lips, “And you’re quite— “.

“My dear,” Aziraphale cuts in, lifting a brow as he cheekily drags his eyes up, “do shut up and kiss me”.

It’s all the encouragement Crowley needs as he closes the space between them and presses his lips against Aziraphale’s. His glasses bump against the bridge of the Angel’s nose, pressing painfully into him, but Crowley could care less as he experimentally tilts his head to one side in order to deepen their kiss. Aziraphale lets out a noisy puff of air from his nose, despite not needing air, and Crowley feels his body slowly rise as if on its own accord.

  
They don’t break apart as they stand and Crowley moves to press his lithe frame against Aziraphale’s front, reaching up with both hands to cup his face and nip at his bottom lip. It earns him a soft gasp from the Angel, who opens his mouth and tentatively sticks out his tongue. Crowley presses their mouth back together, opening it wider to allow his own tongue to slide underneath Aziraphale’s top teeth. It seems right, because then he feels the weight of Aziraphale’s arms come to circle around his waist and curl his fingers into the belt loops of his trousers.

Crowley’s not sure when, but eventually, he’s moved on from licking the inside of Aziraphale’s mouth to dragging his tongue down the side of the Angel’s neck, grazing his teeth lightly against the flesh he finds. He feels Aziraphale’s hands squirm against his waist, a soft rush of air ghosting past the shell of his ear as he finds a spot that makes Aziraphale arch into him.

“Dearest. . .”, comes the airy pet name and Crowley kisses his way back up to scoop Aziraphale’s lips into another deep and needy kiss.

“Dearest,” comes the debarment once more, accompanied by a gentle tug and Crowley pulls his head back just enough to catch a simply delectable picture. Aziraphale’s face is flushed, cheek tinged pink and lips swollen and open tantalizingly. The pupils of his eyes are blown wide, nearly drowning out the blue in them as he gazed up at Crowley with open desire.

“Too much?”, Crowley wagered, moving his hands down from Aziraphale’s round face to rest around his neck, “or do you wish to take this to that deplorable thing you call a bed?”

“I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale huffily said, the haze lifting slightly from his eyes, “I assure you, it’s not as ghastly as you might recall”.

Crowley lets out a snort as Aziraphale lightly cuffs him on his shoulder, letting out an exaggerated sigh before he’s taking a hand and running it up and down the length of Crowley’s arm. “Let me show you,” the Angel continues on, looking up from behind long lashes as he takes Crowley’s hand in his to lead him up the staircase.

Aziraphale leads Crowley up and away from the bookshop and ushers the Demon into his bedroom. Crowley’s crowding the Angel as he shuts the door and proceeds to pin Aziraphale against the door, rolling his hips forward and relishing in the potent twitch in his cock as he grinds against Aziraphale’s equally hard length.

They press their mouths together once more, breaking away at Aziraphale’s insistence despite Crowley wanting nothing more than to continue snogging. Soft fingers come to curl around the temples of Crowley’s dark glasses, and Aziraphale delicately lifting them off from his face and presses a hand to the side of Crowley’s face.

How many times? How many times had he imagined this precise moment? How many times had he spent looking up at the night sky, pondering and turning over in his mind, what it was like to stare up at something so breathtaking with the one you loved sitting beside you? How many times had he been close to saying those three words? There was too many to count, and he had very nearly gone and said it to him back in 1976. Had been prepared to defy Below in order to get what he felt for the Angel off his chest and out into the open so that it may either have died or flourished. But the words had died in his throat, had simmered down to a low flame in his heart when Aziraphale had slighted him. It had hurt worse than the slight throbbing pain he had felt from just holding the thermos of Holy Water in his hands.

It had hurt all the worse because, somewhere, in the back of his mind, Crowley felt as if he were being lied to.

So, he had calmed down. Tried settling in one place for more than a few days, a few weeks, a few months. Took up shop in a swank apartment building not too far from the Angel and filled his tiny piece of sanctuary with various items that reminded him of days long since forgotten. Various plants and small flowers took him back to those mind-numbing easy days of Eden and how the rain he’d thought was Holy Water, was simply just water. But then an Angel spoke, smiled and laughed with him, and then sheltered him until the storm was through even though he could remember feeling the drops hitting his face. Books of astrology scattered here and there, depicting the magnificent photos of his creations, allowing him to sit in his throne and close his eyes and he remembered what it had felt like to run his hands through the cold pools of darkness. Various sculptures from his favorite artists through the centuries, and even one from a church whose Holiness eventually faded and would no longer leave the tips of his finger’s brunt.

All of it had been an attempt at appearing less compulsive, more stable, and less likely to bolt as he had done in the past. But then, it had come to a crashing halt 11 years ago, when he’d been picked and demanded to delivery about the Armageddon. And he had slithered back into his old ways because he was a creature of habit and too much change too quickly—even if it was spread out over 11 years—was enough to make his heart beat irregularly and make his mind falter and stutter.

But, all of it, all of what he had been through since the dawn of Earth itself had led to this. This moment of release of tension where he found himself kissing Aziraphale increasingly desperately and finding that he didn’t care so long as the Angel kissed him back. All of it had brought the two of them together, one of light and one of dark, to finally brush past and touch one another in a dance that had reached its pinnacle. It was odd, intoxicating, it was like he’d been drinking for 24 hours with the way his hands roamed down Aziraphale’s back, resting at the dip in his spine as he moved to pepper kisses from the Angel’s mouth down to his cheeks and the bit of flesh his collar exposed.

“All this time?” His voice is deep, rough and heavy with want and awareness, absolutely breathless despite never actually needing to use air in the first place.

“Since Rome”, Aziraphale gasps out when Crowley grazes his teeth over just the right spot and the Demon intends to catalogue and nose out whatever else the Angel can make because, fuck, since Rome? Crowley tips his head back, stares down into eyes half-lidded that meet his and send of shiver of pleasure down his back because that’s Aziraphale staring at him. Looking at him as if the Demon had hung the fucking moon and stars just for him. Looking at him with all the love an Angel could only ever imagine carrying with them.

“And then, again—_ah,_ in 1941”. Crowley rolls his hips once more, then pushes his full weight into Aziraphale, causing the Angel to let out a breathy gasp as his back presses impossibly closer into the closed door. He looks up into hungry and dark, jewel colored eyes and, if he cared enough to focus long, Crowley could taste the Angel’s growing arousal. It hums around him, wafting up so the Demon can freely indulge. And he does, because with another slow roll of his hips, Crowley presses a hungry kiss against those lips he’d been dreaming of.

Something in him feels like it shatters, spilling out then fizzling out like a drink on a hot summer’s day falling to concrete. It wriggles and squirms inside of him reaching out, grasping towards something and Crowley can’t seem to place what it is he’s feeling. Right now, his mind is preoccupied and focused on the sensation of Aziraphale’s hands which are running their way up and down his back, fingers skimming the edges of his own black waistcoat. It’s all becoming rather distracting and he’s steadily realizing that there are far too many layers between them.

He leads Aziraphale down onto the bed, running his hand from the dip in his hips and up to his chest, neck, then cups his face to run a finger across the Angel’s bottom lip. He speaks about the long journey they’ve had walking through life together in the way he carefully undoes the buttons to the Angel’s waistcoat instead of snapping his fingers. He tells Aziraphale just how much he means to him by pressing soft, light kisses onto a milky white chest that’s lightly covered with tightly coiled curls. Tells him just how precious he is when he sits up and runs his hands lightly down and around his thighs, rolling down and letting out a low and long sigh.

Likewise, Aziraphale tells him how he couldn’t imagine being without the Demon as he arcs his back up to meet the growing heat situated in his stomach. He follows Crowley’s increasing fervor when they both reach the conclusion of never leaving without each other when they’re finally stripped down bare and open to each other’s gaze. They rut and moan against each other, hands tangling around the other and holding on as they move and sway to the beat of some unheard song, but one that rings clearly like a siren in their heads.

A crackle of power surges around them, Angelic Grace and Demonic Temptation move and mingle. Caught up in one another almost to a point where they bleed into each other, morphing into something Crowley can feel tightening in his chest.

He feels like he’s going to explode from the inside out when he thrusts himself fully inside that tight, wet heat that’s Aziraphale. Crowley takes a moment to take a few gulping breaths, locking eyes with dark blue orbs before snapping his hips back and chasing after that feeling. And oh, what a rush. How heady it is to hear Aziraphale sigh and moan so wantonly, to feel those strong legs wrap around his thin waist and pull him down, down, down, down. The sounds of skin slapping against skin is like the sweetest music to his ears, more pleasant than anything the Angel has ever taken to him before and he finds his head spinning from the overwhelming pressure he feels build down there.

_“Crowley”_. A high sigh, mouth open, breathing ragged. Muscles wound tight and pressing against and pulling him in greedily.

Crowley has never been very good at denying the wants of Aziraphale.

He tosses his head back, body shaking and vibrating, and he grabs out to his release and pulls it flush against his chest. The crackle of their respective natures comes to a head, bursting forth and letting everything behind out with a rush. Crowley’s momentarily lost in this, as he feels his body stretch razor thin, pulled out until he feels like he snaps again and is falling, falling, falling.

They’re a tangle of limbs and sheets as Crowley tries to pull himself from the delectable heat that’s Aziraphale. He finally manages to lay next to the Angel, whose eyes are still closed, and chest is still rising and falling quickly. The Demon moves to cover their lower halves with the sheets and rests on one elbow on the pillow.

“That,” Aziraphale says after a few moments—Crowley running his free hand through his pale cream-colored curls— “was quite extraordinary”. And those eyes he adores finally crack open and he’s staring up at the Demon with an extremely satiated expression.

“I aim to please,” Crowley murmurs, lips curling up into a playful smirk when Aziraphale only shakes his head fondly.

“I meant to say this for so long, my dear,” Aziraphale begins again, eyes growing serious as the last bits of hazy lust slips away, “but I do believe I am in love with you”.

Crowley feels his fingers stiffen in Aziraphale’s hair, his body shivering with something akin to nervous excitement. He does indeed love Aziraphale, more than he has ever loved anything in his entire existence. More so than even those fleeting memories of when he’d hung the stars of the Universe. Crowley loved Aziraphale with his entire being and that was something so overwhelming but undoubtedly felt so right.

And so, he leans down to place a chaste kiss to Aziraphale’s swollen lips, pouring as much as he can into it.

“I love you too, Angel”.

And for once, his soul feels light and their future together bright, no matter what might come their way. They'll be in it together from now on.


End file.
